


Have Their Hearts Grown Old and Strange

by swampdiamonds



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Everything Starts Somewhere, Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampdiamonds/pseuds/swampdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A departure, a debriefing, and a whole pile of baggage. Two conversations between Orodreth and Gwindor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Their Hearts Grown Old and Strange

"Gwindor, we've been over this before. Even were I willing to march at the orders of those--"

"At the _High King's_ orders--"

" _Even so_ , a frontal assault like this is reckless and foolhardy, and I will not allow my people to be further decimated."

Gwindor crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, looking for the moment more like a petulant child than a military commander. Orodreth leaned forward, his voice softening. “I lost my brothers, too, you know. I would like to believe that Morgoth can be assailed, and brought to answer for his deeds. But my duty—and yours—is to the living, here.”

Incensed, Gwindor stood, pushing the chair back with a thump. “I know my duty. Would you have us cower in our caves, to be picked off little by little? _This_ is our chance to--”

“Sit down, Gwindor,” Orodreth said wearily. “In that case I hope you will remember your duty to _me_. My answer remains the same.”

Gwindor did not sit down, but instead took a deep breath and stood straight. He had obviously rehearsed for this moment.

“Then this conversation is at a close, Sire. We had hoped to go with your blessing, or at least your permission, but if necessary we will go with neither.”

Orodreth froze with his hands steepled in front of him. There was a long, considering silence. Finally, he spoke:

“You do realize what you’re doing? This is directly counter to my orders.”

A shadow of doubt had crept into Gwindor’s features, but he lifted his chin. “Will you stop us, then?”

And there it was. Orodreth spread his hands, allowing the bitterness to creep into his voice. “No more than I stopped _him_. Go, then. And any who will follow you.”

"Sire, I—"

Orodreth was suddenly very busy with the papers on his desk. “Go. You are dismissed. Make your preparations; say your farewells.”

Gwindor turned to obey. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back. Suddenly and desperately, he blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

He fled. Orodreth did not look up, but smiled mirthlessly.

“So am I.”

 

* * *

 

 

Orodreth observed the elf opposite him from above interlaced fingers. A fortnight had passed since Gwindor’s unlooked-for return, and he was clearly throwing himself into leaving his captivity behind. His hair was clean and pulled back, which disguised its shortness, though not the stark white shot through it. He wore more of his old clothes—there was a faint aroma of camphor about him--but these had at least been taken in to fit him properly. The effect was unsettling: this pinched, shrunken new Gwindor overlaid with his image out of memory.

"Was there anything else, Sire?"

“Ah--yes. This Man of yours…'Agarwaen', he calls himself?—"

Something like an eyeroll flashed across Gwindor’s face. Orodreth continued.

“That’s not his given name, of course.”

“It seems unlikely.”

“But you know his given name.”

It was not a question. Whatever Gwindor was thinking, his face showed nothing. A pause. Orodreth straightened the pile of state correspondence in front of him. "You know," he said, plucking a letter bearing the royal seal of Doriath from the stack, "when I heard that Elu Thingol of all people had taken in a human fosterling, I thought it was unspeakably peculiar. Even my brother never thought of doing that. But I suppose that guilt can be a powerful motivator."

He pulled another letter from the stack.

"The child seemed to have grown up well enough, at any rate. A skilled commander for one so young. The East-marches were manageable for the first time in a score, although of course it couldn’t last. A pity nobody knows what happened to him."

Gwindor was very still. He appeared to be preoccupied with the grain patterns on the desktop. Orodreth set the letter aside and leaned forward. "So," he said, his voice deceptively light, "do I tell my uncle that I've found his errant fosterling?"

For a moment Gwindor’s eyes met his, then flickered back down to the wood grain. Finally:

"We were wanderers brought together by chance. I never asked his lineage.”

Orodreth gave Gwindor a long look. “And yet you led him straight to my city and vouched for his admittance alongside you.”

Gwindor lifted his chin but said nothing. Orodreth let the silence hang between them before acknowledging the stalemate with a sigh. He shuffled the two letters back into the stack and tied it with a flourish. "Well. That will be all, then. The council will vote to reinstate you at the next meeting. If you have any questions, Finduilas can fill you in.”

Gwindor nodded and stood, putting his hand on the back of the chair to steady himself. Orodreth rose to see him out.

As they stood side by side at the door, he laid a hesitating hand on Gwindor’s shoulder. Gwindor tensed but did not flinch. “Thank you, Sire,” he said, still not meeting Orodreth’s eyes.

He walked down the hall without looking back. Orodreth watched as he passed the guards and disappeared back into the city. Then he turned and closed the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Given that (a) Orodreth corresponds regularly with Thingol & Melian, (b) Gwindor introduces Túrin (at least in Children of Hurin) as “a very valiant man, dear friend to Beleg Cúthalion”, and (c) endnote 6 in Unfinished Tales, which notes that “the one thing of which Túrin never rid himself, despite his grievances against Doriath, was the speech he had acquired during his fostering”, I think Orodreth must have been able to connect the dots pretty quickly, even if he didn’t acknowledge it right away.
> 
>  
> 
> Gwindor is obviously equivocating here: he didn’t ask because he already knew perfectly well who Túrin was.
> 
>  
> 
> The title is lifted, perhaps unwisely, from the lyrics of “Do They Think of Me At Home”, an old sentimental song from the turn of the century, which can be heard [here](http://www.loc.gov/jukebox/recordings/detail/id/1719/).


End file.
